


In His Waking Hours

by hooksandheroics



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, but i still apologize, i've been on this for three weeks now, nightmares and dreams, this is where i apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:05:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2753849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooksandheroics/pseuds/hooksandheroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams are tattered quilt sewn over and over again. Sometimes, they don't make sense. Sometimes they make the most perfect sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Waking Hours

He wakes up from a nightmare.

But that’s not unusual.

Waking up from a nightmare where everything is dark and cold and he has his eyes open but he could see nothing, where he’s screaming his throat raw until it closes, where he’s losing everyone he’s come to care about – that might be the worst nightmare he has ever dreamt of, but it’s not the first time he’s dreamt of it. Waking up from it, drenched in sweat, breathing ragged and quick and short, heartbeat erratic and painful, head reeling – that’s also a habit of his. Waking up alone, as well.

His dreams loop around like a bad movie, the ones he and Octavia used to watch on the Ark. One moment, it’s dark and cold, the next it’s blindingly bright and scorching. One moment, it’s a nightmare, the next, it’s just white noise and his shadowed thoughts whishing past his eyes. Sometimes he dreams of death, sometimes of things he wished had happened. And it’s always the same thing when he wakes up staring at the canvas that is the ceiling of his tent.

Right now, it’s different.

There’s a warm body by his side, his heart is beating from his chest into somebody else’s skin and flesh, and while his breathing is uneven and hurried, hers is steady and relaxed. Blonde hair tickles his nose and a hand flexes unconsciously on his chest, nails scratching lightly at his skin. He hears her mumble something close to the sound of his name, and every dark corner in his mind disappears.

She pulls him back from his hell when he falls into it, and if he had known, he would have aimed to wake up next to her sooner.

But so it went, they did need some time to fall into this pattern and it took them nearly eight months, more than half of the kids gone, the Ark arriving on Earth, and – shit, he feels tired again just thinking about everything.

A quiet whimper snaps him back to the present, and he quietly turns his head to glance at her slowly rousing form, her brows furrowing as she fights a losing battle between sleep and wake. He has the rare privilege of watching as her eyelids flutter open and her eyes meet his through the haze of drowsiness.

She has always been this beautiful in the early recesses of the morning, and if he had known, he would have aimed to wake up next to her sooner.

“You’re awake,” she mutters, voice scratchy from sleep, and he doesn’t know how, but he falls deeper.

He rolls his eyes and smirks at her. “So are you, princess.”

She slaps him on the chest, just hard enough to sting, and he responds by dragging his fingertips down her back, tracing her spine with reverence and relishing in the shiver that she seemed like she could not help having. He smirks at her because he knows that she knows what he’s doing, and she knows that he knows she likes it but is too stubborn to succumb to it.

She wraps her leg around his from under the threadbare blanket they have around them, the skin to skin contact making him lose focus, just to realize that she’s holding back a sigh when she desperately bites her lower lip.

He chuckles and shifts her so that she’s lying sprawled on top of him, flushed from chest to toe. She tries to hold back a quiet screech, but fails, and it makes him laugh louder, makes him wrap both his arms around her and just let the moment sink in.

“You’re an idiot,” she says to his face, and he would have taken offense, but the smile on her face that she just can’t quite reel in is softening her words to a breath against his lips. Something he can’t quite keep his eyes off of –

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she replies quietly, and her gaze drops to his mouth as well. This shoots heat all throughout his body, warming his blood in a way only she can.

Next thing, he’s tilting his head forward to capture her lips with his, pressing her body against him tighter with his arms around her waist, while her fingers thread through his hair, clutching and holding him down. She has always liked doing that, and there are no qualms from him about it. Far from it, actually, because whenever she does that, he kisses her a little harder, holds her a little closer, loves her a little deeper.

The thought gives him pause, his lips freezing under hers, and she feels it, too. As she always does, because they’re one and the same, every fiber and muscle synced together, a reality they’ve come to accept together. This time, his movements stop just as his heart does, as the realization dawns on him.

He’s in love with Clarke Griffin.

She pulls back enough so that she can speak, but still close enough that their noses brush when she tilts her head.

And really, damn her for being so perceptive, because when her eyes pierce through his in _that_ way, he knows he just can’t do anything but spill the truth. Or whatever version of the truth he feels like spilling. (He likes to think he still has a grasp of some part himself that doesn’t belong to her. Some days, it’s harder to lie to himself about that.)

“What’s wrong?”

He blinks at her, tries to catch her lips once again just to distract her (and himself as well, quite frankly), but she pulls away from his reach so that she’s farther, a serious expression pulling on her lips.

“Bellamy,” she says, his name a warning on her tongue as her brows furrow.

“Clarke,” he replies, her name a plea in turn.

He watches as her face turns contemplative – and then, determined. A combination so dangerous he actually feels his heart skipping a beat for a moment there. This is not the first time he’s seen her use that look, and it’s definitely not the first time it has been directed at him. Now that he thinks about it, it _has_ been mostly directed at him. This time, though, is a little different being in their current position with her on top of him, naked to the skin, blood humming in his veins. There’s a look on her face that is mixed with contemplation and determination, something dark and feral and reserved for when it’s just the two of them.

He should have seen it coming, should have known that in the most unexpected times, she would use her charms to make him succumb to her will – when she knows all too well his weakness.

It’s her. She’s his weakness.

Most specifically, when she’s running her finger down his chest, her touch electric and gentle all at the same time, making his breath hitch as her fingertip skirts down his abdomen, pointedly lower until he is catching her wrist in his hand. If she continues, he will not be able to hold himself back, he will be baring his soul to her in no time.

She hums and leans back to latch her lips on the side of his mouth and all he could do is lie there frozen, his eyes closing on instinct as his breath becomes ragged and uneven. Clarke does this to him, makes him want to set himself on fire, makes his thoughts dark and sinful, makes his mouth hang open as she nips at the underside of his jaw –

“Clarke – I –

She twists her wrist from his grip and threads her fingers through his hair again, his grunt satisfying her as she grinds against him, the naked, delicious friction rendering him breathless and hard.

This reminds him of a dark, stormy night, of wet blonde hair and a near-death whish of a spear past blue eyes staring straight at him, his clutch on a measly knife bruising and constricting – anger and words and seeing red at every turn until they’re back in his tent and his mouth is spewing a tirade of his unquiet thoughts about safety and importance – _her importance_ – to him – the camp, he means. That’s what he meant – she is important to the camp, to the kids, the Ark itself and if he lost her he would not know what he would do – maybe – he’ll –

And then she’s walking towards him, his words halting as his throat closes up, from exhaustion or her proximity, nobody has to know. But she’s running her fingers through his wet hair and bringing his lips closer to hers.

His eyes drift shut in anticipation, but her words were the first sensation he feels on his lips. “You’re crying, Bellamy.”

He is, there’s no denying that. And it’s one thing he can easily write off as being just _the rain_ on his face, but she’s catching the damn persistent tears on his cheeks and he opens his eyes to see her smiling at him. This is – there is no jest in her tone, no teasing, no malice. She is looking at him like she has just accepted what he hasn’t realized yet: that it would hurt losing her as much as losing his sister.

The thought races through his mind like a gusting wind – fast and cold and harsh that when she pulls him towards her lips it’s like a gratifying relief from the uproar in his head. The only sound is the thunder and the rain and her.

That was long ago. She’s figured out, in more ways than one, his blind spot.

But then, right now, nothing matters but her as she bites at her bottom lip and as her eyes flutter closed. She’s lining him up against herself and lowering down in an agonizing pace, stealing the breath from his lungs as easily as breathing it in.

Her name escapes his lips in a breathless moan, and he briefly thinks maybe letting the words slip is a good idea now that he has come to a head with the realization of his feelings, before that thought vanishes completely when she bends down to latch her lips on his neck.

She moves slowly, makes sure she draws it out, makes sure he’s feeling her heat, and the pleasure she’s giving him. He knows it’s futile the way he’s trying to reel in a groan and a shudder when she moves just the right way, because every time they fall into bed together, he always thinks how foolish he is to hold themselves both from this.

He runs his hands up her back until he’s grasping her blonde locks, tugging gently until they’re eye to eye.

And he says it, the lowest whisper, from his tongue to her lips. He doesn’t know if she heard it the moment it’s out of his mouth, but before it dissipates from the air, she’s kissing him and stealing the breath from his lungs (not the first, but always feels like the last, and he thinks it’s because of Earth, but sometimes he’d like to imagine this is how it’s like in any other circumstance, as well).

“I love – I love you, too,” she says in return, and if she’s struggling with the words from her mouth, breathless, the determination in her eyes is steady just like the thrum of her heart against her chest.

He should be surprised, he should be thinking this impossible for her to reciprocate – but he knows better. He knows that the concept has always been hovering over their heads with every glance, and every worrying look, and question, and shaking hands on warm skin. Its presence is in the decided notion that he will do everything to keep her safe, and the feeling that she will do the same for him. The words are just long overdue.

He turns them over, if only to see her hair splayed out on his pillow like a halo, if only to see her blue eyes staring up at him with the reverence he’s sure is reflected on his own. And then he smiles – possibly the most genuine smile he has ever given, as far as genuineness goes.

She closes her eyes as he continues to move, and the sight of her is enough to drive his strength, to drive him forward, and make her feel what he’s trying to convey because words can only say so much.

He presses the gentlest kiss on her lips as they both stumble off the edge, her walls clenching around him, his name a confession in her breath.

He wonders again if she’ll ever love him in his waking hours.

And then he wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> This is like just a lucid imagining of what I wish would happen on the show, and then, just like in real life, it goes perfectly meta and I wake up in the end to the reality that I'm just a viewer and not a writer on the show. Oh well.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> p.s., I'm on [tumblr](http://hooksandheroics.tumblr.com)!


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